


Someone Makes No Sound

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dark Magic, Genderbending, Influenced by a shit ton of fairy tales, M/M, Magic, Muteness, Prince Castiel, Princes & Princesses, Princess Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a poor blacksmith in Roseport, trying to make amends for - well, doing what he had to in order to survive after both of his parents died in a house fire. He is slowly being consumed by his own guilt for his past crimes, and the debts that have accumulated while Sam has been away at the Academy of the Guard.</p><p>Castiel is the prince of Sage, and heir to the kingdom that rules much of the land. He is utterly devoted to duty and fully prepared to take his father's place despite the whispers of doubt, internal cries for freedom that haunt him every time he gets a taste.</p><p>When they encounter each other in the woods, both of their worlds are unwittingly altered. For each it is love at first sight, but not even love is strong enough to keep them from separating - not even learning each other's names.</p><p>Dean's life goes awry when he discover's that he has fallen for the prince of his own kingdom. Out of desperation he reaches out to a witch who promises him to be absolved of the guilt and pain that come with unreciprocated love: except it back fires terribly.</p><p>Meanwhile, Naomi plots to usurp the throne from King Charles, and annihilate the one true heir: her step-son, Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Makes No Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! First off, I would like to say this was originally a very cracky idea that I had, which somehow evolved into a dramatic fairy tale alternate universe. Bear with me because I am not accustomed to writing very long pieces! I am making no promises about updates because the holiday season is very hectic for me, but I did want to put this out there, get some feedback, and see if I should continue!
> 
> Leave your comments at the bottom pretty please? c:
> 
> ([inspiration](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xdl0-JgPjdk))

_**F** or with each dawn, he found new hope that someday, his dreams of happiness would come true._

+

“Open that window, boy.” Bobby throws the demand over his shoulder, his face hot from the heat of the forging oven. Dean uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe away a layer of sweat.

“ _Gladly_ ,” Dean bemoans and leans over to unlatch the wooden shutter, pushes it open, and finally the winter air spills inside. It’s like smothering the flame of the old oven—for a minute at least.

The sound of Bobby’s hammer slamming into the near-molten steel strewn across the cast iron anvil rings in his ears. It’s a sound he’s more than used to, one that comes with the job just as much as the callused hands and burn scars.

Dean stands beside Bobby, supplying him with the tools he requests, though Dean can nearly predict what Bobby’ll need before he asks. Bobby reaches out his hand and Dean reaches for the anvil—but Bobby grabs that reaching wrist.

“You’re going to beat this one a bit,” he instructs.

Dean blinks. “I never tried my hand at making nothing but…forks and spoons. An occasional horseshoe.”

“I see you watching though, Dean. I know you want to learn to make swords. You’re ready.” Bobby hands him the hammer. Dean’s fingers twitch inside his woolen gloves, and he braces the blunt end of the sword—the one that didn’t get soaked in the flames of the forge—and held it down flush as he could get it against the anvil.

It’s a trance, a rhythm that Dean falls easily into. Each deafening ring of iron in his ears means the sword is one step closer to beauty.

+

When Dean was young, he wanted to be a knight. The kind that his mom used to tell him stories about.

Mostly he wanted the armor, the strength—the sword. For a while he even wanted the princess, because he hadn’t hit puberty yet and realized that…that he was different in that respect. The idea, however, of sweeping someone away from peril and danger, evil witches and terrorizing dragons, was alluring beyond words.

The dream of being a hero shattered long before he had a chance to grow up—to realize that poor bastards just don’t become knights or save the day. He learned that when his house burnt up with both his parents inside it.

Dean couldn’t save his mom.  His dreams were charred, practically ash. Just like her.

+

The sound of a pipe flute, the static murmur of voices high and low, the cranking of the well and the soft trickle of water that follows—all characteristic of the only tavern in Roseport. It’s the middle of the day, but the bar stools are already filled and the tenders are already busied by endless requests of ale. Dean is content to sit in his usual seat and watch the scene move on without him as he drinks his liquor.

While the tavern is often busy because Roseport is just that, a port—a village on the path to the kingdom of Sage—the masses seem to have contaminated the town due to some celebration that Dean frankly didn’t give a damn about. The inn is already packed with outsiders; invalids that wanted to get a look at their precious prince.

Dean snorts, taking a small sip of his drink with one upturned lip. Dean Winchester hail to a prince? Please. He’d spent the majority of his life a criminal. It’d take an act of treason to make all the king’s horses and all the king’s men come get him.

Regardless, he’s on the straight and narrow now. Well, sort of straight. The money that bought this fantastic tangy glass of whisky may have come from selling his sword on the black market. Criminals much higher above his pay grade are willing to pay a hell of a lot of money for a good sword. And it was a good sword.

Wistful, Dean smacks a few notes down on the bar, catching the attention of the bartender.

She perks an eyebrow at his generous tip, to which he responds with a smirk. “Go buy yourself a pretty dress, Jo.”

“That’s Joanna to you,” she says seriously before her usual breathtaking smile breaks across her lips. She rips the money from beneath Dean’s fingers and then leans across the counter. It seems like she’s about to kiss him, but she just hovers a breath away. “Hope you didn’t kill anyone for this.”

“Look, I may have stolen my fair share of fabric and jewelry in my day, but I ain’t never killed a person for the clothes on my back,” he announces, a little too loudly he realizes after the fact. He scoots in his seat. “Besides, I got a good job, now. After Charlie got me out of that arrest, you know. No one would hire me, ‘cept Bobby.” He presses his lips together for a moment. “Bobby’s a good man.”

“Hell of a lot better than you,” she teases. “But what about that brother of yours? Still got that baby fat?”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “I wish. Kid turned eighteen in May, taller than a freaking bell tower. He actually is about to graduate from the academy, next month—January.”

Jo lights up. “So he’s going to be an actual guard of Sage!”

“That’s the plan. He’s always wanted to do that kind of stuff, protect the kingdom from outside forces all that shit. He’s hoping he can get stationed here afterwards, but there’s not a good chance.” Dean rubs a hand across his face, because he really wants nothing more than to see his brother more than twice a year. He’ll be seeing the kid soon, only because the Winter Solstice is approaching, which means a holiday for the academy.  But he misses the days when they only had each other and it was Sam and Dean against the world.

But the best thing to ever happen to that kid was to get a scholarship to the academy, even if it meant Dean being incredibly, hopelessly alone.

“Charlie could pull strings,” Jo points out.

Dean recoils at the suggestion. “I ain’t asking Charlie to do any more favors for me.”

“I hope you’re talking about sexual favors,” comes a voice from behind Dean. He glares at Jo for a moment—because she knew Charlie was approaching. Jo only smiles and turns around to tend to some other drunken bastard.

Then Dean turns to face the music.

“I am, which means you ain’t getting any of this fine piece of ass.”

“’Fine piece of ass,’ my ass,” Charlie laughs and sinks onto a stool next to him. Her vibrant red hair is more auburn in the dark tavern, and it ripples as she sifts her metal chinked vest over her head and lays it on her bar. Then she idly rests her hand on the hilt of her sword, thoughtful. “You’re more like, hmm, an eight. Or a solid seven-point-five.”

“Shut up, Charlie.”

She smiles. “Never. But seriously, Dean, you know I’m your girl when it comes to pulling strings. I owe you.”

“No, you don’t,” Dean mutters, certain that it was he who owed her.

“Look, you put food in my freaking mouth, Dean,” she tells him earnestly, leaning in to him. “You and Sam—you were all I had there for a little while. We were all just orphans and, despite all we did, I don’t regret it because we’re alive. We didn’t starve to death or get hanged.”

“You sure know how to count your blessings.”

“ _Maybe_ I’m just a grateful person, you should try it sometime. Being grateful that I’m in a position to pay you back. Ten-fold. Now tell me what you want.”

Dean shakes his head and falls from the barstool. “I’ll call in my favor another day,” he says tiredly. “My bed is calling me, long day in the shop. Good liquor in my blood, too.”

“You are an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he quips with a smile and touches Charlie’s arm; he leans in to remind her, “ _another day_ ,” which might as well be his language for never. Based on the tight smile on Charlie’s lips, she knows that.

+

The next morning Dean is awoken to the sound of Bobby banging on his door.

“Get on up, Dean!” The door separating them muffles his voice. “I got a project for you.”

Too early for this, Dean says, opening his eyes narrowly to notice that there was light pouring through his window. Great, so not only had he slept in but he was hung over—that was the only explanation for the pounding headache in his temples. Thing is, he didn’t drink that much whisky at the tavern. It was probably the canteen under his pillow that was responsible for his predicament. He reaches for it, shakes it, and laughs cruelly to himself. Of course he drank it all last night—of course.

Dean fumbles from the bed and into his scratchy wool work clothes and slips on his forging gloves. Next to his bed is a small dresser, on which is a bowl filled with some water he’d gotten from the well a few days ago. It’s already lukewarm, but he splashes some over his face, hoping that it’ll wash away some of his body odor.

Downstairs, Dean can already hear the clank of metal against metal. Once he is in the forging chamber of the house, Bobby looks up with a raised brow, pausing his hammer in midair.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” Bobby mutters to himself and resumes pounding against the hot metal. Dean saunters over beside him, seeing that this item wasn’t exactly a tool. It curved and spiraled and almost looked like a funnel his mom used to use for baking—a connection he would have rather not made.

“Pretty, huh?” Bobby turns to look at Dean.

“I guess, it’s interesting.”

Bobby lays down his hammer and the work in progress, reaches down into a bucket lying on the floor. A sliver of iron very similar to that Bobby was working on settles in the center of his gloved palm. It looks more symmetrical, clean, polished. “Customer wants _sixty-six_ of ‘em, don’t ask me why. They brought me a prototype and asked us to replicate them. Supposedly, it’s art.”

“Looks like a fancy-ass corkscrew to me.”

“Art,” Bobby repeats, but he even seems doubtful as he gives the iron piece a scrutinizing stare. He sighs and lays it down, crossing his arms as he looks to Dean. “I’ve made five, you can make the other sixty-one—I am going with the trading caravan to Sage to see if I can sell off some of the silverware we stockpiled.”

“Wait, so you’re leaving me here. Alone?” Dean asks, honest surprise in his tone. So what if he’d known Bobby all his life, and so what if Dean had been a good little worker for nearly two years? Bobby hadn’t ever let him do shit, probably because he thought Dean would rob him blind or something. The possibility of Bobby thinking of him like that sends a sharp pain through his chest.

But, then again, Bobby’s talking about leaving him to run the shop.

“What, don’t think you can handle it?”

“Nah, I can,” Dean says quickly, maybe too quickly. Regardless of his self-control there is still some childlike eagerness in his voice. “But aren’t you scared I might…” steal from you, “burn down the house?”

“You won’t burn down a damn thing, ya idjit,” he grumbles. “The horse is already packed, and I’ve already sent word to the customers coming to pick up their pieces today that they’ll be dealing with my young apprentice.” A smile seems to almost pull at his lips, but he’s hitting Dean across the back encouragingly before the expression can follow through.

+

The guilt sets in before Dean even begins to violate Bobby’s trust.

So he isn’t going to rob the old man, but he doesn’t want to follow orders either. The chanting of words like liar, traitor dance in his mind as he find the piece of iron he’d bought and hidden beneath his cot. He sets it in the fire, eyeing the corkscrew-things he’s supposed to be making.

The sword he sold on the black market earned him a pretty penny. So pretty, in fact, that he was able to put a huge dent in all the money he owed on Sam’s tuition. He’s gotten dozens of letters telling him that if that debt weren’t paid, that Sam won’t graduate.

And Sam is going to graduate.

One more sword, Dean thinks, and all of the tuition would be paid off. The hope is bright, nearly painful as he wills the fire to burn hotter and faster. He wants to finish forging the sword as soon as possible so he can do Bobby’s task. If he can do it all, there will be no need to lie except by omission. Dean can live with that.

+

The sword, in its complete form, is wrapped in thick, oil-stained canvas and tucked into a carrier’s bag the Dean has strapped across his back. As he walks he feels the blunt edge of the blade bounce against the top of his ass and, no matter how much he adjusts the strap, it’s still poking him in the back. He’s glad he wrapped it up at least.

It’s barely four, he supposes based on the sun easing toward the western edge of his peripheral vision, but there’s something about Divid Square that just makes everything seem darker. The houses are made of more straw than wood, streets made up of broken, weathered cobblestone if not just dirt by itself. He’s familiar with these parts, the most impoverished and downright dangerous part of Roseport. Nevertheless, it still gives him the creeps when he sees bony gray-skinned women set out on the curb with cast iron cauldrons—probably witches—and men (much larger than Dean) with occult tattoos painted up their necks and criss-crossing their faces.

Dark magic is alive and well in Divid Square.

Dean’s careful to avert his eyes and just keep walking, his money pouch making his foot ache as it wriggles against the sole of his boot. Once he gets through the emptier part of town he finds the merchant’s street, and walks idly with his eyes facing straight forward.

He finds the small cart he’s looking for, indicated by a rotting sign with faded paint: _L’s Herbal Delights_.

Dean raps his knuckles on the shutter of the cart, lips tight as he looks into the darkness inside. “Anyone home?”

“Right here, Dean,” says a cold voice next to him. Dean curses and jumps, finding his back pressed against the side of the merchant carriage as he exhales.

A blonde haired woman laughs cruelly, pressing her hand to the center of Dean’s chest. She’s smaller than him, but her touch spreads all over, the magic of her fingers literally making his skin crawl—she likes to do that, replicate the sensation of worms or beetles sifting beneath his shirt, or spiders biting him.

“Damn it Lilith, don’t sneak up on me.” Dean pushes her hand away, and relief strikes him when the insect sensations go away as well.

She pouts, petulant, and crosses her arms. “But I love to do it. Never gets old.” Lilith casts a speculative glance over him, one that suggests she is trying to read him. He smiles to himself because she never can—the tattoo on his chest wards away dark magic from shitting around in his head. “What have brought me today?”

Dean looks around—he had every right to be paranoid on this side of town. “Better to talk inside.”

+

“How _dare_ you come to me demand things of me when all you have to show for it is this little metal piece of _shit_!” Lilith shrieks, sending the sword flying through the air with her magic, stabbing the wall behind Dean, only a few inches shy of his torso.

Dean does not flinch, but a glaring hole is burned into his pride as he grabs the sword by its hilt. Fierce and unthinking, strides forward and presses the blade to Lilith’s neck with a snarl.

"This is a good sword," he seethes.

Lilith rolls her eyes and pushes the sword away with one polished finger despite Dean's effort. "You've never handled a sword, let alone killed someone. Didn't precious mommy ever teach you don't bring a sword to a magic fight?" She tilts her head thoughtfully before offering Dean a smirk. " _Oh_ , that’s right.” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, eyes wandering thoughtfully before returning to Dean’s with a bitter glare. “Dead, just like daddy, too."

In an effort to restrain himself Dean lets the sword fall from his hand, and it clatters on the floor. "You're going to buy it off me. It ain't a bad piece of work—"

" _Nothing_ like the one you brought me earlier in the week," she interjects. "Now that sword, mhm. It was thin, it was just the right balance between gravity and space, sexy and fierce." Lilith licks her bottom lip as her eyes cascade Dean. "You, Dean Winchester, are not a second-rate piece of shit like that oversized butter knife!"

Lilith holds her fist over the floor, and snaps her fingers open. Simultaneously, Dean years the crack of wood—the sword writhes on its own and the carved hilt fissures and falls apart. The blade begins to fold on itself, crumpling like parchment does in the rain.

"Or, maybe you are," she says with a mocking sadness in her voice. Dean should know better than to listen, but his face still falls.

+

She pushes him out of her cart and into the rain. Dean cannot say that the prick of disappointment is more painful than the fear of wanting for more, greed as they might call it. Though he thinks greed might be the least of all sins, at least his own, because all his materialism has been for Sam. Buying Sam books and uniforms and even a sword (Bobby wanted to give it to Dean, but he refused to ask the old blacksmith for anything more than a job and a home), was that greed? Or when he resorted to employing a five-finger discount at the market to make sure Sam didn't starve, or even Charlie?

If greed is a sin, then so is living. Not that he holds the abstract ideas such as Heaven or Hell in much esteem, anyhow.

The rain falls equally on the just as the unjust.

+

Dean partitions Bobby's assignment by hours. He expects the old man to be back by dawn the next day, so Dean estimates five pieces per hour with only one break for a sandwich will get the job done. The sun's already begun to sink below the tree line, Dean notices when he peers out the left window. The December air rolls in and brushes his cheeks, and the smell of rain is as potent as a fresh cup of coffee—which doesn't sound like a bad idea. While he waits for the iron to heat in the flame he sets a pot of water to boil.

A watched pot never boils, so he turns his head away, toward the window, to watch the sun set.

+

"You did good, these are fine. Weight is right, has an artistic balance, boy. And, what's this? This one's beveled?" Bobby raises a brow at Dean as he holds up the corkscrew iron piece in question.

Smothering a yawn that was building in his chest, Dean wipes a hand across his jaw. "I made sixty-six just like you asked, and that one is number sixty-seven. I tried a little chiseling and beveling, uh, just to see what it would look like. Practice, I guess."

Bobby nods slowly. "It turned out good. It has a—a style to it."

"Heh, maybe in ten years people'll be wanting a piece of that," Dean mumbles, smirking.

"Don't discount yourself, Dean. I know you didn't grow up wanting to be a blacksmith—lord knows I only started out because my daddy did it same as his daddy—but you have potential.”

In reply, Dean snorts because, yeah, he definitely has potential: the potential to fuck up. Bobby doesn’t appreciate the half-hearted response, so he slaps Dean across the back of the head. “You’re an idjit, but you ain’t incompetent. You’re gonna go to bed—yeah, don’t think I can’t tell ‘lazy-ass’ from ‘I pulled an all-nighter’—and for dinner I’m making pot roast. They sell it for pennies in Sage.”

Dean nods, lips pulling into a terse, yet thankful, smile. “Thanks Bobby.”

Bobby grunts, which is the closest he’ll ever get to a ‘you’re welcome.’

+

In an effort to escape the incessant buzzing of tourists and townsfolk throughout Roseport—undoubtedly due to the royal festivities taking place in its streets—Dean heads down to Charlie’s station outside the Lord’s mansion. Here there is heavy security and the merchants cannot set up shop on private property, so he finds refuge in the shadows of the monumental buildings in the most historic part of the village. Still he can hear a flute pipe and accordion, tow instruments his ears are attuned to and hate, so he begins to whistle to himself a slower, more relaxing song that he has known all his life.

Charlie spots him before Dean sees her, hearing the familiar whistling tune. She’s seated upon a sturdy brown horse, who snorts as Dean comes upon them. Not ceasing his whistling, Dean wraps a hand around the horse’s head and scratches her fur, making her whinny in delight.

“How the hell do you do that?” Charlie asks, eyebrows furrowing as she nudges her horse’s stomach with her boot. “Moondor won’t even let the guys in my squadron touch her, yet—you waltz up to her and she could sing your praises if, you know, horses could sing.”

Dean smirks up, continuing to pet Moondor with the flat of his hand and tips of his fingers. “What can I say? I have a way with the ladies.”

Charlie snorts. “Not this lady, I’m afraid.” She pushes her bright red hair from one side of her neck to the other, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I think I’m out of your league.”

Instead of agreeing with the statement—because, yes, it’s wholeheartedly true—Dean rolls his eyes and drops his hand. The dismissive gesture doesn’t escape Charlie, so she throws herself into a conversation about the day’s events. Mostly she complains about the craze that is the Harvest Festival, as they call it, though Dean doesn’t see any harvesting going on. His parents were farmers originally, but most of Roseport specializes in production, like Bobby and blacksmithing.

The prince of Sage is apparently the main attraction for the entire event, though he has not arrived in Roseport yet. Charlie informs him that there will be a parade in two day’s time in his honor, and security will be doubled. “I mean, everyone loves the kid apparently. The girls swoon over him and all the men want to be him, probably because of the attractiveness factor.”

“You hear that in a bar?” Dean asks her, noting it as the only possible place Charlie would receive such gossip short of being a lady in waiting for the prince himself.

“You know what, maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. They say ladies shouldn’t be in such places but not all ladies have one of these.” She touches the hilt of her sword, which his sheathed at her waist. “Not that I’m interested, but I heard he’s a looker.”

Dean drops his eyes away for a moment, too long of a moment. “And you think I’m interested?”

“Nope,” Charlie says too quickly.

Feeling his heart race, Dean tries to swallow away the sudden discomfort in his stomach. He does not ever want to address what Charlie seems to have at least noticed so easily. It is a good moment to change subjects. “When does your rotation end?”

Charlie glances to the sky, squinting. “My relief should be here soon, why?”

Dean reaches behind him, shifting his back to show that, underneath the thick, woolen layers of his coat was a leather skin bag filled with pointed arrows. Across his shoulder, a bow. “Nothing like a little target practice to burn off some steam,” Dean speaks with an exuberance that has been missing from his life recently. Charlie perked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “For old time’s sake.”

+

There is no wood within the walls of the kingdom, only alabaster and masonically carved stone. The one tree within Sage is one that Naomi grows in her private court. She sits at the base of its trunk, her legs neatly folded within her as she casts a suspicious glance over her shoulder. The long, dark brown braid falls over her neck, revealing the locks of silver expelling themselves from the scalp. She has seen those strands; they lack not in luster, but in youth. And it’s always the youth which she requires.

Her hand wraps around one of the roots, thick and covered with bark, and she attempts not to further her wrinkled disposition by frowning when she eyes the loose skin around her knuckles. So old, so incredibly old. Disgust curls in her stomach and threatens to produce vile beneath her tongue, so she closes her eyes. Darkness beneath her lids, she focuses on the little flame inside her—a magical flame that has withered for many a year, now. A flame that, by a happy accident, has been sustained by the one tree in all of Sage.

The herb for which they say the city was named, sage, is said to be an herb of purity. It is said, though Naomi finds the theory laughable, that before a wall was erected, the fairies tilled the soil and sprinkled sage seeds in it, then set fire to every inch—and from it sprung life, not in the form of a wood, but in an unconquerable kingdom that has led the land to much glory and wealth. That is why the city’s bird is a phoenix, a bird born and born again from mere ash.

Naomi finds it a decent enough story, a fantasy at best, but cannot discount that the fairies did leave a piece of their magic in this tree. It’s evident every time she does this, pulls at the frayed strings of her own magic and mingles it with the little, glittering life of the mass of bark and wood. She has subduction of the thing down to a sweet science, and it yields quickly to her request.

An unspoken prayer is answered when a branch atop the tree folds, as if to the weight of gravity, and reaches toward Naomi. As it should, she conceits in her easy domination of this piece of nature. The branch unfurls like a moonflower catching the aura of night on its petals, the wood spreading and divulging a single, red fruit.

“There, not hard at all,” she coos, a smile unfolding on her red lips as she grasps the apple in her fingertips. She bruises the delicate skin, because she is all but delicate, and presses it to her lips in haste. Juices run down her chin as she consumes the apple’s flesh; some of it carries the color of her lip pain with it, and a line of crimson strays from the corner of her mouth down her neck, and beneath the dark black collar of her dress.

One bite is all it takes the silvery flakes of hair to dissolve into charcoal, for skin to tighten and take a youthful blush that whispers alive and young. Naomi smiles and lets the half eaten fruit tumble from her fingers. It hits the cobblestone path and instantly decomposes as if she was its anchor to this poor excuse for living.

She tracks down the run of her lip paint and wipes her neck with the back of her hand, draws a fingernail across the outline of her lower lip to redefine the remaining coloring. Satisfied that she looks presentable, Naomi lifts herself from the ground. She eyes the tulle of her dress, peeking from beneath the outer layer of satin, and sees that one of the trees smaller roots is clenching to her—like a petulant child pulling at its mother’s dress. She scowls, kicks the root, and it recedes and hides in the cracks of stone.

“Senile tree,” she curses, as if it had ears. It’s easy to do, however, because a thing that cannot hear cannot speak, and if a thing cannot speak it cannot protest against her. And that is how she prefers things: silent.

+

Fully extended, the bow is longer than Dean is tall. The longbow is made from the core of an ash tree, and the string is made from horsehair. It has a certain elasticity to it that Dean prefers; when he plucks at the string as his horse trots through the forest, he can hear a soft hum—a pitch. He takes that same pitch and starts to hum, not caring that his voice doesn’t match the pitch anymore when he continues to pluck it.

Up ahead, Charlie curiously peaks over her shoulder, catching Dean holding his bow precariously similar as one would hold a harp as he hums—eyes closed, relaxed and more young-looking than he’s looked in a while.

As if the man has an underlying sense of when he’s being watched, his eyes flash open. For a moment his mouth hangs, a melody squandered under the weight of embarrassment. Charlie giggles as she watches his freckles stand out against red background

“Stop staring, you weirdo,” he mutters as if speaking (in a pitch much higher than that of the average twenty-three year-old man) would actually help him. He wrinkles his nose and straps the long bow over his chest, squinting into the wood around them. “We could stop here.”

Charlie pivots in her saddle, absently tightening her hands around the reigns. “We’re still, technically, the perimeters of Roseport. Shooting within city limits is illegal,” she reminds him with a raise of her brows. “It’s better for the both of us if we stay lawful.”

Dean breathes a puff of air, as if he rather would not. “Charlie Bradbury, who’d ever thought she’d be enforcing laws instead of artfully avoiding technically breaking them?”

A shrug forms on Charlie’s shoulders; it really didn’t seem like very long ago when she and Dean were both barely twenty a crime-causing duo of sorts. At the market, she was very good at making small talk with the shop owners’ sons—her red hair and bright intelligent eyes is, after all, very attractive—and Dean could become invisible and utilize his five finger discount.

Years have passed, though. Time inevitably causes change, not for any reason other than it needs to occur.

“She,” Charlie executes as she turns to glance back at Dean. “Does enjoy breaking one law, these days.” Idly, she casts a look to her side, noticing the marker that indicates that Roseport is now a mere few yards behind them.

“And what law is that?” Dean asks doubtfully.

“The procurement of fine brewery, forbidden by the forefathers of Sage.” Charlie reaches into her saddlebag and pulls a canteen, throws it to Dean. He barely catches it, flailing like he has been tossed a slimy salmon fish, but as soon as he has a grip on it he unfastens the cork.

He sniffs it, blinks hard a few times before letting out a whistle. “Moonshine,” he says, a little wonder in his eye. Dean seems impressed, brows raised in interest before he tentatively presses his lips to the cap.

“Don’t drink too fast, mister,” Charlie chides. “I can’t, in good conscience, let a man shoot his bow drunk.”

+

Dean does get drunk, often, but it doesn’t particularly affect his aim. Though when his arrow strays five inches south of the painted target on a tree’s trunk, he begins to worry; he has perfect aim, and that isn’t even an exaggeration. When thievery couldn’t fill three bellies, Dean was forced to adopt other talents. Some boys took to the streets, found their ways beneath secretive rich men’s sheets, but Dean refused to fall to such a shameful level.

Of his crimes, he’s most ashamed of the first bow he ever had—the one he stole. He wish he knew from whom he stole it from, but in his desperation he saw it laying on a cart in town—just there—and he took it and ran. He rain to the wood, tried and failed to make his own arrows. For days the guilt ate at him, and he wondered if the family to whom the bow belonged was struggling. Did they have children they had to feed? Oh, and Dean couldn’t even properly use the damned thing. It was for nothing.

So he saved up his extra pennies, ate a little less and gave Sam and Charlie more of his food until he could save up for a quiver of arrows. It was a nice one, the only one that he could find that would fit arrows crafted for a longbow, made of snakeskin and Birchwood. The arrows within it were nowhere the quality of the quiver, but they would do.

Dean must have been fifteen, and two months had passed since he stole the bow, when he made his first kill. He managed to lodge an arrow into the leg of a small, harmless dear. Nowhere did he see its mother, and he hoped that the mother had already passed, and would not see its poor offspring suffer—but he really tried to shorten its pain by cutting its throat, but the action only caused an irrational sob to wreck his ribs and fill the wood with a wretched, sympathetic cry.

Because of that first kill, Dean was motivated for precision. He had to make each shot a kill shot, or the shot was not worth making.

Charlie is oblivious to any change in his aim when she laughs, pulls a small dagger from her waist and arches her legs. Before Dean even met Charlie, she threw knives. Apparently her father taught her before he passed, and it’s always a talent that she has nurtured in secret. It’s more of an offensive talent, not used for hunting but for war. War hasn’t seen Sage or any of its surrounding villages in decades, but Dean isn’t surprised that the Guard has nurtured or innate talent to stab things.

She pivots her hips, snaps her arm forward and the knife’s handle glistens as it slices through the frosted, night air. It lands in the center of the target, north of Dean’s arrow. It’s then she takes notices of his aim. “What would Sam say?” she feigns shock, subtly taking the canteen from Dean’s hand with a playful tug.

“Sam’d take my booze away,” he mumbles back in a half-hearted complaint. Dean is a harmless drunk, satiated by a certain feeling of numbness as stumbles back to sit on a fallen log. He lays his longbow across his lap and Charlie gives him an affectionate smile, almost motherly.

As he relaxes his legs, much more like air than before, Charlie pulls his arrow from the target and treads over to hand it back to him. He thanks her with a grunt and pulls the quiver from his back, stows away the long, birch arrow that matches his equally fine casing. His fingers drag along the snakeskin, and he sobers very suddenly at the reminder of all the difficult weeks he survived saving money for this, yet another tool to pull himself from poverty.

“You did it Dean,” Charlie whispers to him, suddenly next to him and only a breath away. She lays a hand over her knee, innocent and sweet—but Dean still finds it creepy as hell that she always seems to read his mind.

“Almost didn’t,” he slurs. “Almost pulled you, you and Sam, down with me. Good thing you’re smart.”

“You didn’t go down Dean, you just—you just had to pay the piper. It happens to everyone eventually. You do enough bad, it comes back to you...but you’ve also done a hell of a lot of good,” she tells him earnestly, gesturing to herself. “I am forever grateful, Dean.”

“It’s a miracle you turned out okay,” Dean breathes out, shaking his head with pinched eyes. “And Sam.” It almost pains him to say his brother’s name now, like it’s a reminder of all his shortcomings. All the debts he owes, if he doesn’t pay back, will be on Sam’s shoulders. He couldn’t possibly let that kid suffer one more day, not after getting to where he is.

“So what if it’s a miracle? You say that like those are bad things.”

“Well, miracles are just debts that haven’t been paid to the man upstairs,” Dean supposes, thinking about the stories his mother used to tell him about angels, about God. She’d been religious, but not heavily so. Many ‘miracles’ could be attributed to witches and wild spells that went to wrong. “Or some unexpired magic.”

Charlie, for some reason, outwardly scoffs at that. “You are such the pessimist, Dean,” she scolds him. “You think good things can’t happen to you without you—I don’t know, having to pay back?”

“I think good things happen,” Dean clarifies morosely, nodding as he stares into the woods. Fog is rising above the dying grass, flakes of dead leaves coating the dirt trail as well. “Just not to me.”

“Then to whom?” she asks in a demand.

So many questions, so much praise that Dean’s darkest self roars in defense—he launches from his seat on the log, adrenaline coursing through his veins quick enough to staunch the alcohol’s effects. “To princes, princesses! To bastards much poorer than me who haven’t done the shit I have.”

For a blinking moment, Charlie stares up at him as if not astonished at all about his sudden uproar. She almost seems to be prepared to challenge every word, but she presses her lips. Relieved to have no argument against his despicable past, his unreckonable future, Dean slaps his bow flush against his back and marches to his horse, Chevy. He hears his name called once from behind him, loudly, but he ignores it and slings his leg over Chevy’s back and nudges her in the belly, bringing her to move. At a trot, it doesn’t take long for her to build up speed.

+

Opaque moonlight dances along the dark blue velvet collar of Castiel’s cloak, giving the entirety of his body and illusory glow. The fabric ripples as he slides off his saddle, feet hitting the dirt and rocks below with a crunch that sounds more like bones breaking - a sound that makes Castiel cringe sympathetically and touches his forearm. It has only recently healed completely from a nasty break in the summer.

His steed softly whinnies and Castiel hushes her, unsure if the noise is likely to attract more violent creatures. "Hush now, Hester," he murmurs and ties her to the nearest tree. A walk would do a great deal for his mind - weighed heavily by an impossible itinerary. His adviser scheduled him for local events daily during his quest along the outer villages of the kingdom.

Roseport is just another city filled with subjects hoping to catch a glimpse of their future king. Castiel sighs and quietly ridicules the concept of himself, being the quaintest and boring in his family, being the greatest spectacle in Sage and beyond. Birth order should have nothing to do with notoriety, yet no one questions his younger siblings cascading from town to town, country to country, as they squander his family's private fortune. That is the first thing that will end, Castiel promises himself, when he becomes patriarch - the boundless and wasteful extravagance to which his family has become so accustomed to.

The flood of hot resentment quickly fills Castiel's face, a stark contrast against the cool fall air, and he reminds himself he has traveled miles from The Lord of Roseport's guest villa, deep into the wood, for serenity. Peace of mind, something that does not come to him when nearly each minute of his life seems to be coordinated by someone else. He just wants a few hours to have control over what he does, what he says; it's an easy request to fill when all seems silent.

He pads through the forest, cloak pulled tight around his cold, reddened ears. Beneath the sound of his own footsteps—spotless leather soles dragging against dead grass and leaves—comes the sound of crickets and running water. Absently, Castiel follows the sounds. Maybe there is a brook from which he can drink. Well water can be very stale, and wells are plentiful within the walls of Sage, and Castiel fancies the idea of touching the pinnacle of nature in motion.

Over a rocky ledge, over which Castiel carefully leans to eye the space below, which is indeed a river bend. He smile to himself and tosses a leg over the slanted boulder and carefully slides, making sure his fingers catch on all the appropriate grooves so he doesn't fall.

The hilt of his sword makes a grinding sound against the stone as he slowly drops down the ledge, so he pivots his hips. His father gave him that sword years ago, and although the man has his faults Castiel cannot help but feel diminished at the thought of wrecking something that his father—his King—gave to him in one of his few visible acts of love.

Excitement and relief strikes Castiel simultaneously when his feet plant firmly on wet rocky sand. His boots sink into it, and Castiel looks around for a moment—as if there is anyone else in the forest this time of night—before he starts to toe out of them. Once his feet are free, he exhales a pleasant sigh. Sand squishes in the spaces between his toes as he listens to the water beat against the constraints of the bank. Castiel steps forward and tests the water by dipping his toe against the silky, moonlit surface. It’s absolutely freezing—nothing like he hoped, so Castiel is content to sit down and press his feet into the wet sand, which is tepid and heated by the earth he supposes.

If Meg, his adviser, could see him now she would laugh in that cruel mocking way. A prince barefoot and literally relaxing in dirt: he agrees that the synopsis itself is entirely laughable. Still he ventures to press his palms into the sand too, letting the imagined sound of malicious cackling be consumed by the sound of the river. His mother took him to a beach once, it’s his only memory of the woman who died giving birth to his younger sister, Anna. Apparently she had a fondness for the sea, because Castiel distinctly remembers casting off her slippers and running into a heaving tide. Behind his eyelids, Castiel can see his own smaller hand reaching out in fear for his mother as she runs into the tumultuous—or so it seemed to him—waters.

“Come Castiel!” she calls to him, smile spread across her lips. Her hair has fallen out of place in the memory, rippling like a sail would in the wind.

In the present time Castiel smiles at the memory, because he did go to her—he tore off his little boots and ran straight into the water, the most fearless he has ever been in his entire life.

His memory is abruptly interrupted by the sound of a torn yell. First surprised, then alert, Castiel quickly brushes the sand from beneath his feet and shoves them back in his boots, pushing himself up with more attuned listening. He hears the noise again, reminiscent of what Castiel can only imagine as a battle cry. It’s coming from the other side of the river.

The body of the river is too wide to jump, so Castiel’s eyes search in the dim light for perhaps a skinnier section. Hand on his waist, fingers resting on his sword’s hilt, he becomes more frantic when he hears the noise again.

He finds a fallen log that looks perfectly sturdy enough to act as a bridge and pads across it. The noise is closer than he thought, the cries harmonizing with a cracking sound of wood—not quite like a limb breaking, more like bark being pulverized.

“Son of a bitch!” the same voice says, not quite the yell Castiel has been hearing, but a fierce curse that reverberates through the forest.

+

Maybe Dean isn’t a harmless drunk.

Then again, he decided that he was good as sober due to a magical cure, which is his temper. As soon as he decided that he was far enough from Charlie’s judgment and motherly coos that make his stomach curl with shame and insufficiency  (he feels like her parent, and he doesn’t need her comforting), he tied up Chevy and ran deeper into the wood and found a trunk with a large enough girth, painted a target, and began to unload his quiver on it.

He pulls back his bowstring as far as it will go, relentless and angry, and lets go of it with a raging cry. No one can hear him, so it doesn’t hurt to let it all out. Let out that subliminal guilt for yelling at Charlie, not accepting her comfort, as he knows that she does it because for some reason she loves him; let out the fear that comes whenever he receives a notice about his debt to the academy, the fear of Sam being kicked out on his ass because Dean can’t make a good goddamned living because he squandered away any chance of a reputation in order to feed the kid!

He releases the arrow in his sights and his shaking hands must have altered the trajectory in a split second. Even in the dark, Dean feels the wrongness in the shot, and it almost turns sideway it was so horrible. He curses beneath his breath at first, winces when he hears the arrow hit the target wrong, and wades through his bitterness to pick it up.

The goddamned thing’s snapped, its arrowhead chipped from hitting a rock or something. These things aren’t cheep or easy to make, as if he has many arrows to spare. He has exactly eight, now seven, and that pisses him off.

“Son of a bitch!” he grumbles and tosses the arrow to the ground, taking his anger a step further by grinding the thing beneath his boot until the slivers of wood snap into something looks more like a fragmented tree branch than an arrow.

Dean leaves it on the ground because there is no point in salvaging it now.

His behavior was extremely childish, in hindsight, and he is almost resolved in mounting his horse and going back to find Charlie. She had annoyed him, but in reality she was trying to beat away his pitiful streak. He doesn’t even know why he said all those sorry things, like he had so little to be grateful for. He has his skin and his family—blood and not—is, for the most part, alright. Sam is going to graduate from his academy, even if Dean must finance that education with his soul; Charlie is an enigma—she is talented and brilliant and a prized member of the guard; Bobby is an old happy bastard with a flourishing business. He has nothing to be ungrateful for, no reason for his temper to come unhinged.

But, he does want more.

And perhaps that is the sin for which he feels so guilty—that in all his struggles, his strife, the leaps and bounds he has come has barely put a dent in his want. He doesn’t want a castle in the sand, or a thousand golden bars. In essence, he just wants to not rely on himself, his uncertain and unquantifiable abilities, to survive. He wants a partner, maybe love, maybe a family for which he is not solely culpable.

Suddenly, there is an effable crunch—a combination of leaves and perhaps a fallen branch—that makes Dean’s thoughts fall away like a shed skin. His hunting instincts take over, and his bow fell from the shoulder to which he hung it. Before he can even exhale the air from his lungs, he plucked the string of his longbow back and released it in the direction of the sound. His hearing is precise in that sense.

And then he breathes, loading another arrow onto his bow and letting it rest on his forefinger as he ambles on the path of his trajectory. The ground is relatively flat with only a few trees, so the animal should be lying close, unless the moonshine is still affecting his depth perception.

He curses beneath his breath when he sees his arrow buried a quarter-length deep in the bark of an oak tree. He grips it tight and braces his other hand on the trunk and pulls, but the thing is stuck. Fucking awesome, he thinks with a frustrated grunt as he throws his weight into pulling the arrow out.

“Do you need help?”

Dean literally falls back onto his ass, scrambling for purchase. Instead of his fingers finding something to catch, something—someone—catches him. They are fingers, wrapping around his exposed wrist, and they are warm and hard as they pull Dean up. Once he is sure of his balance, Dean raises his eyes and lets them adjust to the moonlight as he blinks.

Blue is the first word that comes to mind, when his eyes fall on the impressive cloak, a color that can only be described as dark ad the midnight sky, yet its hue is most obviously blue. Dean’s thoughts fumble as he lays his eyes on another pair, whose blue is nothing like night. They are light, they are wintery yet warm as furrowed male brows press together in—worry?

Rather than attempting to interpret that, Dean tears away from the hand, entire body pulling backward. “What the hell? Who the fuck are you? What are you—”

“I heard yelling,” the man says simply.

Eyes wide in disbelief (what kind of explanation was that?), Dean’s fingers tighten around his bow and he presses it into the guy’s shoulder. “You don’t just sneak up on someone in the woods, man,” he scolds. “I could have killed you.”

The man tilts his head, looking down to the point on his shoulder to which Dean has his bow pressed. He raises one gloved finger and pushes it, expression blank as far as Dean can tell. But those eyes—Dean locked in on them, and it’s a gaze so intense that he can feel the exact moment when his arms lock up, and he lets the bow fall away easily.

“You are a good shot,” he finally tells Dean after a pregnant silence—and it’s like he’s confirming, nonchalantly at that, his near-death experience. He touches the arrow, a curious light shining in his eyes. “I was standing just a few inches from here.”

Dean snorts. “You should catch me on my best night, you’d see how good I can shoot.”

The man raises a speculative brow. “Oh, should I now?”

Despite himself, Dean blushes intensely at the mere ton of those simple words. Embarrassment is not a pleasant color on Dean’s cheeks, so he bites into his bottom lip until he can push it away. Why the hell is he embarrassed in the first place? Maybe its because the man’s words seemed to be lined in innuendo. Which they most certainly are not, Dean reminds himself. No one else thinks like that with other men, just him. A whole new strand of the tattered quilt that is Dean’s guilt.

He coughs, hard, trying to collect himself. “Well that wasn’t a goddamned invitation for you to skulk on me every time I practice.”

The man seems genuinely interested, in a really creepy “So you come here often?”

“Dude,” Dean huffs with a breath, trying not to reveal how Mister Blue Eyes—yeah, that’s a good enough name—is wrecking him with his stupid creepy stare. “Are you trying to pick me up? Because I’m pretty sure that’s the worst pickup line ever invented.”

Mister Blue Eyes considers this, tilting his head to the side, eyes flashing up thoughtfully before turning back on Dean. “Is it working?” he turns right back at Dean, as if the question is freaking harmless.

If Dean was a girl, he probably would have squeaked—well, he might be a girl because he’s pretty sure he makes some kind of defenseless squeak, which he quells by strapping his bow across his back. Escape seems like the only option right now, and he really doesn’t know what this guy wants. He’s dressed nice, but he could be some kind of thief.

He steps backward, giving the guy a half-salute. “Not really, pal.”

“Wait!” he doesn’t grab Dean by the shoulder, but he’s about to, and he stops his hand midair. Dean feels those eyes on him, so he listens. Why does he listen? “Are…are you going to get your arrow?”

He is only half facing Mister Blue Eyes now, gazed trained on his arrow, still buried in the tree trunk beside them, and the guy. He absently reaches his hand behind his back and touches the arrows remaining in his quiver. He really cannot afford to lose another.

“I,” Dean starts, working his mouth before giving in. “Yeah.”

Mister Blue Eyes lights up immediately, an interesting feat considering the mask of night over them. He pushes off his cloak and it cascades to the ground below him. Below it, his outfit is utterly unfit for a mere ride through the forest. His boots are clean, no dried mud or tears like Dean’s have; he’s not old, he’s probably about Dean’s age, but he looks like he’s just been knighted or something.

That last thought lingers when he catches the glint of something—a sword hanging at the man’s waist. He unsheathes it, the moonlight catching on the stones embedded on the hilt. Dean instinctively takes a step back, memories of guards pulling their swords out on the young man, once a thief, but the man catches the tentative step back that Dean takes.

“You’re safe,” he promises Dean as if he was truly concerned about the concept of Dean’s safety.

Dean scrunches his nose, not fond of the idea of a stranger going out of his way to protect Dean. “Yeah, just watch where you swing that thing.”

And if Dean is not puzzled enough by this strange man, those blue eyes roll amusedly. He lifts the sword, arching it over his shoulder with a concentrated glare, directed toward the tree. He presses the tip adjacent to the arrow and thrusts his entire body forward.

Before Dean even realize what he’s doing, Mister Blue Eyes snaps back and takes his sword with him. The blade carves out a large enough opening, through which the arrow slides and falls to the base of the tree.

“You’re welcome,” Mister Blue Eyes says, sheathing his sword quickly.

Dean mumbles some words of thanks as he bends his knees and reaches for his arrow. The guy does the same, and somehow their fingers manage to brush together as Dean goes to grip his fingers around the arrow. The contact makes his fingers tingle, a sensation that goes up his arm like he is struck by lightning, and soon the whole buzzing feeling resonates in all his bones. He doesn’t like the feeling, so he yanks the arrow quickly and stows it in his quiver, nearly missing and stabbing his own ass with the arrowhead.

This situation is entirely too uncomfortable, to weird for Dean to bear. He could handle scruffing it out at bars, dealing with witches, but awkward meaningless conversations? Count him out.

“Listen, um, nice chatting and all…” Dean trails off and rubs his neck. “But I should be getting back.”

Mister Blue Eyes nods. “Yes, I should be returning as well,” he agrees with a sigh. “But I do not wish to. You see, I do not get out very much.”

Dean huffs, completely in accord. “I couldn’t tell, really, I have never had such a pleasurable encounter,” he says emphatically.

“I am not entirely oblivious to sarcasm, though I do appreciate you recognize that I could benefit from a measurable social encounter that is not—dictated by others, so to speak.”

“Let me guess: you have had a lot of people telling you what to do your whole life?” Dean guesses, knowing the type. He’s probably a rich kid from a family that profited from some good marriage ten generations ago. Old money, because the guy is well mannered and not a prude by the looks of him.

“You have no idea.”

Hit the nail right on its head, Dean thinks with some satisfaction. “Well, you’re in luck: I’ve never had anyone tell me what to do.”

+

Once the man in the forest warmed up to Castiel, their conversation became easy. They walked together, side by side, discussing minute things like the weather and the moonlight and the theories each of them have about the stars. The man likes to think that the stars are the souls of all who have died, at least those who are worth being put in the sky to be forever remembered. Castiel is more educated, he supposes, having read in books about stars being galaxies far away, with other bright suns and planets. He does not vocalize his findings, because he too likes the idea that perhaps his mother illuminates the night sky, watches him.

The man, whose eyes are a color of green that reminds Castiel of summers traveling the countryside, implies that he has lost important people as well. In this, they find a new silent camaraderie.

Even so, they do not exchange names. For Castiel it is refreshing, because all his life he has been formal—bows and handshakes and the announcements of titles. Plus, he can make this one friend, short-lived as their encounter may be, and not be seen as a prince. He is just himself. Chances are this will be a one-time encounter, anyhow—an assumption that strikes Castiel in the pit of his belly. He can glances to his side, watches the green-eyed man in his bow-legged stride, and actually mourns that this trivial yet honest relationship is as short lived as the full moon above him. Castiel must return to his villa soon, or Meg may send out a dozen-horse search party. Although a prince, she considers him perfectly incapable of taking care of himself (which he resents beyond all measure—he’s older than she!).

Resolved in savoring the night, Castiel takes the man down to the river nearby, the one he relaxed at before following the sound of the yelling. They both slide down the sandy embankment, and it’s a laughing stumble for both of them. Castiel expels the boots from his feet faster than before, toeing out of them, and breaks into a sprint. He almost forgets the water is cold before he is knee deep in the river, his skin chilled by the rushing brook.

“Come! Join me!” he calls out to the man, who watches doubtfully from the side.

“That water is cold as hell,” he assures Castiel, as if he doesn’t already know that.

His teeth chatter as he waves the man over. “And the moon is full,” Castiel deadpans.

The stranger rolls his neck, still considering the invitation. Castiel sees the precise moment when he gives in: his shoulders hunch, like he’s collapsing as quickly as the strength of his own resolve. He kicks of his boots as he walks toward the water’s edge. Castiel is more suprised when the man sheds his pants, and he cocks an eyebrow, trying to feign judgemental in order to hide his own blush.

The man meets Castiel’s eyes and frowns. “I want my pants dry when I get out,” he mumbles. Castiel closes his eyes for a brief moment, knowing that his eyes would most definitely linger on the bow-legs he caught a glimpse of: thick with hair and muscle, not unlike his own.

“Shitshitshitshit,” the man gushes as he steps into the water, but he continues to wade toward Castiel. As the space between them closes, Castiel feels himself growing warmer and warmer; he’s either adjusting to the water’s temperature, or he underestimated his ability to restrain his feelings. The moment he laid eyes on this man, so young in stature but old in his deep eyes, he knew he might as well be lost. The appeal—the appeal of him was evident in the way indecisiveness dissolved from the man’s face. It was the trust that called to Castiel like a siren.

“You will get used to it,” Castiel assures him once they are beside each other again. Not upon his own volition, but by pure instinct, Castiel closes his hand around the man’s wrist. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture, unlike the same grip he’d used to grip the man as he fell earlier in the night.

“No,” the man mutters to himself as the eyes the place where Castiel’s hand lay. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing before he raises his eyes up. They pinch together, but they are warm as well. “I don’t think I will.”

The air turns cold again, an incredibly sickness curling in the pit of Castiel’s stomach—what in the world is he doing? This man, this stranger, is closer than any human has ever been in his entire life. They are both men and he is a prince—he must marry a woman, he must bear an heir and he must—he must leave, he must go before Meg realizes that he has been absent far too long. The sun is already peaking over the ground in the distant horizon.

So Castiel pulls away.

Immediately discomfort and hurt crosses the man’s face, and he may utter an apology but Castiel’s ears are filled with wax. “I—I am sorry, I lost track of time,” he explains hastily, wading toward the edge of the river. “I must go.”

After a pause, the man follows behind him. “I need to go too, I guess—I left a friend out there, before,” he stammers in explanation.

Their eyes meet and there is a definitive silent agreement that this—what ever has bitten them, infected them, tainted them—it cannot continue.

“Can I at least have your name?” Castiel finds himself whispering as he puts on his boots.

“I,” the other man starts, neck rolling indecisively. Before Castiel even answers, he know what the man will say—the same thing Castiel will say. An exchange of names would be an admittance to their differences. “I got no name,” he tells Castiel after a pregnant silence.

Castiel only replies with a nod, gathering his bearings as he stares around. He is on the same side of the river as Hester, and he takes a few cautious steps back. “Goodbye,” Castiel says for lack of any more adequate farewell.

The man gulps and raises a hand. “See ya.”

Only when Castiel reaches his horse, who huffs puffs of fog from her mouth at Castiel’s approach, does he feel the bitterness of the cold strike him. It’s soaked in his pants, the bottom of his shirt; it drips from every inch of him. But there is a new coldness to him that exceeds the water and the temperature. It’s seated behind his ribs, where his heart beats dully. As he looks around the forest, all is silent except for that heartbeat—a silence that is lonely, the sound of sadness.

 


End file.
